


the thrill of the thought

by alby_mangroves, brideofquiet



Series: the summer of a thousand julys [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Pining, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Sex Work, Sex Worker Steve Rogers, baby's first time getting paid for blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves, https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: You don’t want to think about what Bucky’s doing right now, where his hands are and if he’s sweating again, but you can’t help it. You’ve got so little control over yourself when it comes to him, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed anything yet. Which came first, the queerness or the Bucky? You can’t really remember; it doesn’t really matter.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Original Male Character(s)
Series: the summer of a thousand julys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472135
Comments: 38
Kudos: 180





	the thrill of the thought

**Author's Note:**

> Steve's experimenting with sex work, I'm experimenting with point of view... It's a wild world out there. Thank you to alby for creating yet another beautiful piece of art for this prequel! And thank you to everyone who's read and reread this series over the last year. Here's a little treat ♥
> 
> If you're new here, I do recommend reading parts two and three before this one! But also do what you want.

The room is loud and low-ceilinged, and you’re standing off to the side like always. You don’t mind it—like it, even, because of the familiarity. The world spins and you’re the stable point in the middle, or you’re trying to be anyway, even if that’s been harder than usual lately.

The dance hall is crowded full tonight, but it takes just seconds for you to find him. That’s familiar, too. Maybe you would feel heat in your ears about it if you hadn’t been tuned into Bucky like a favored radio station since you were kids. The thing is, it goes both ways. You find Bucky, where he’s dancing with a girl in the center of the place, joyful and easy—and the moment you do, his snow-blue eyes are staring right back. He gives you a grin, wipes his brow, and keeps spinning.

You’ve thought for a long time that you’ve never seen anything as compelling as Bucky’s body in motion, and it’s especially true tonight. His clever feet and his quick smile and the way he makes it all look so effortless even as he’s sweating bullets. You let him try to teach you once, a couple years ago when you were still living with your mother. She was working another late shift and Bucky came by to keep you company in the evening. He’d been egging to help you out for weeks, but that night he didn’t even bring it up; you just saw the look on his face when a song he liked came on the radio, and wanted to keep it there. You were awful but he didn’t mind. Bucky’s always been patient in ways you don’t know how to be—maybe it’s only something you can learn as the eldest of four. But he let you lead and step all over his socked toes till they were purple, and even then you could barely manage a two-step, but he seemed pleased, and that was all you wanted. The dancing you could take or leave.

Tonight is no different. The girl you were supposed to dance with has long since wandered off, but you don’t mind; that’s not why you’re here.

It’s been a while since the two of you have been out like this—too long. The music gets under your skin and makes you tap your toes, and you think about how nice it might be if you had a skirt and clacky heels so you could dance with him right here. Different shoes wouldn’t change your two left feet, but it’s a nice thought. A queer one, but you’re used to those by now, and you don’t mean anything serious by it. You’ve met the kind of people you’re talking about, who wear dresses and lipstick, and you like them fine, but you’re not one of them.

You are queer, though. You’re sure-footed about a lot of things and always have been but that one—that one you know down in your bones. Letting your best friend know seems like something you ought to do, given that you tell each other just about every other detail under the sun, but this one’s harder. One thing you don’t know for certain: if he’ll think of you any different.

So you sit on it, the way you’re sitting on a lot of things these days, and it’s fine for now. You’ll get to it someday.

The band squawks out the final brassy notes of an upbeat number. The crowd shakes loose a little when a slow song follows it—some couples not quite ready to commit to that kind of romance, maybe. Bucky comes over to you, still dancing a little, shaking his hips at you in a way that would make his mother cluck her tongue. You roll your eyes, but the grin gives you away; it’s clear on Bucky’s face that he knows he’s got you.

“Hey,” he says, swooping in close and laying an elbow on the table you commandeered for the night. He grabs for his abandoned beer bottle, and you remember you have one too. It’s clammy and still mostly full. You ought to drink it because Bucky bought it for you when you said something about not needing it to have a nice time; he knows by now that’s code for _I don’t have the money, Buck._ Bucky is generous with his smiles and his money; you don’t know how to take either of them quietly.

“Hey yourself,” you tell him. “You lit a fire out there yet?”

Bucky scoffs and kicks one heel at the floor. “I’m doing my damndest, but it just won’t go!”

“Valiant effort, pal.”

“Oh, thank you. Sure you don’t wanna?” He thumbs toward the stage. “I could find somebody else to—”

“That’s okay. I like watching.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Always the observer.”

“Hey, I join in! I’m a joiner!”

“Relax, champ, I’m teasing. You’re here, aren’t you? I know you.” As if proving his point, Bucky slings his elbow around your neck and pulls you in close. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.”

A new song kicks up, another fast number, and you assume Bucky will wander off to find his date again—but he stays where he is, near to you, one broad hand dangling off your shoulder and the other wrapped around his beer. The heat off his body is a lot; he’s sweaty, his collar clinging to his neck. You think about unbuttoning it for him, just for the air flow, and keep your hands to yourself.

“Where’s your girl?” you ask. You feel bad that you can’t remember her name.

“Huh? Oh, Marielle? Another fella asked her to dance a few songs. I’ll find her in a while.”

Bucky doesn’t get territorial about his dates the way you’ve seen other men do. You can’t decide what it means—if his mother just raised him right, or if he doesn’t care much about them—but you find it admirable somehow, and certainly preferable to all the posturing. His girls always come back to him, anyway. He’s the best dancer in Brooklyn and charming down to his toes.

He stays with you for a few songs, shooting the breeze and nursing his drink. He finished up his electrician’s apprenticeship a few months back and is working a steady job now—seems to like it, as far as jobs go. His brow pinches when you tell him how your own work is going lately, and you wonder if he can tell you’re lying to his face. The thing is, you liked the job at the greengrocer’s better than most, but it just didn’t work out. There’s no real story to tell about it. He’ll try to slip a five dollar bill into your pocket before the night’s over; you can see the look on his face.

“You can just say,” Bucky tells you.

“Say what?”

He sighs but drops it, and starts talking about his sisters instead. You wonder if maybe you take too much advantage of his kindness sometimes, and if that makes you a bad friend. Maybe this give and take is what friendship is—it’s not as if you have too many examples to go by.

Eventually Bucky decides he’d like to dance a few more songs, so he lopes off to find Marielle, but not before buying you another drink. He does it without asking, because he knows you, and even if you’re a little wrankled about the gesture it’s a nice feeling in your gut to be understood. The beer is decent, so you bite your tongue and smile. Then you watch him some more, an act you’ve long since accepted as your favorite pastime, even before you knew what it meant.

Your feet are getting tired from all the standing around by the time the band calls it quits for the night. Bucky tumbles over to you, his arm around Marielle’s waist. She’s a sturdy strawberry blonde—when you met them outside the restaurant where they’d had dinner together, she said something that made you laugh, though you can’t remember what it was now. Her smile is genuine when she turns it toward you. Somehow Bucky always finds the sweet ones. None of them stick, and Marielle won’t either, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she did.

“I told Marielle I would walk her home,” Bucky says. The glint in his eye and the color in her cheeks says he told her a little more than that. “Unless—”

“No, that’s okay,” you say.

“Walk with us,” Bucky offers.

“I don’t mind,” Marielle says. She does, though, even if she’s too nice to admit it.

You set your teeth. “No, you all go.”

“Ellie, go get our coats, do you mind? Give me just a minute to say goodnight to my friend. Thanks—you’re a doll.” Bucky turns to you, his mouth twisting. His eyes are cloudy, which means he’s a little drunk from the beer and the dancing both, but he focuses enough to look at you hard. “You’re sure you won’t walk with us.”

“Train’s the opposite direction.”

“You don’t even know where Marielle lives, blockhead.”

You thumb at your nose and sigh. “Come on, Buck, I’m trying to do you a favor, huh? You don’t want me still palling around when you get to her door.”

His chest rises and falls on a great big breath. His neck’s still sweaty—glistening in the light, sure to itch when the night air hits his skin and dries him. “Fine,” he says. “You’re a true friend, Steve.”

The catch in his voice says he’s talking about more than just your unwillingness to crash his date any more than you already have. Before you can react his hot hands are on your face, his thumbs two bold lines against your cheeks. He pulls you into an embrace just like that. You wrap your arms around him because you’re allowed right now, and think about how Bucky gives like it’s easy, like he’ll never run out of anything. Sometimes it astounds you how different the two of you can be. You bury your face in his damp shirt collar and hold. It’s just for a moment. He’s your best friend in the whole world. Maybe you’re a little drunk, too.

“Hey,” Bucky says, pulling back, “hey, meet me for lunch tomorrow. I’ll come to you, how about it, Steve?”

You nod and tell him you’d like that, then rattle off the name of a deli on your block. He hasn’t been out to where you’re living right now, but then again, you haven’t lived there very long—probably won’t be there much longer. Bucky says he’ll see you tomorrow, and then he turns to go find his coat and his date. You don’t see him leave properly, but he’s gone. You’re left standing there with your empty beer, feeling strange and frantic like a wind-up toy held still.

The overhead lights flick on, and what remains of the crowd grumbles and huffs. There’s no sense staying here, but you might stay out a while longer. Other bars will still be open. Maybe you’ll just take a walk. You pick up your jacket from the coat closet and slide it on, your knuckles catching on the threadbare elbows. It’s not warm enough to withstand the chill outside, really, but it’s all you have for now. You’ve wanted to save, but it’s hard. You could have taken your old coat to Bucky’s mother to fix for you, but you wouldn’t have been able to pay her, and that’s her whole livelihood, so you didn’t. Instead you hunker down in your jacket and feel grateful that at least your hat’s warm, and set out alone into the night.

Your feet hurt less the more you walk. All that standing around is bad for circulation—you hear it in your head, in your mother’s voice. _Get moving, Steve, you’ll feel better._ All you can do now is listen whenever you hear her; no one to talk back to anymore. So you walk, and keep walking. 

People flock and scatter like birds out on the street, flying in and out of bars and other buildings. A Friday night out on the town is appealing to anyone. A few people cajole you as you stride past with your head down, nothing mean-spirited—they don’t know you enough to mean it when they call out asking why the long face. You pay them little mind. Your thoughts are elsewhere. 

You don’t want to think about what Bucky’s doing right now, where his hands are and if he’s sweating again, but you can’t help it. You’ve got so little control over yourself when it comes to him, it’s a wonder he hasn’t noticed anything yet. Which came first, the queerness or the Bucky? You can’t really remember; it doesn’t really matter.

Maybe it’s good the two of you are spending less time together. That way you can deal with your bullshit heart all on your own, and never bother him about it. You’re young enough to feel like you’ll never get over it, but old enough to understand that you probably will. Could be it’s just the proximity. You like fellas now, and he’s the one you know best—so, of course.

That argument falls apart when you consider you’ve been sleeping with men for years now, and only one or two have ever held your attention for long. But it’s easier to rationalize your way out of it than imagine you’ll feel lousy about it forever, so you keep doing it, and shove your hands deeper into your pockets to keep off the chill. At least it’s not cold enough to see your breath. Would your mother have had any advice? You can’t think of how you could have told her about any of this, but now that you never can, sometimes you wish you had.

Your legs carry you all the way to the park without you having to think too hard about it. It’s only when you’re at the edge, the immense dark of the woods looming a hundred feet away, that you realize where you are. A sigh pushes past your lips. Your body knows you better than you do sometimes, and isn’t that just ironic, given its habit of betraying you as often as possible.

For once, though, you’re a little bit grateful. Maybe here, you can find someone to help you forget for a while that your rent is overdue and you may or may not be in love with your closest, oldest friend. Sex is good for a lot of things, but number one with a bullet is the way it gets you out of your own head for while, if it’s good enough.

So you stride into the park, carrying yourself a little different than before—head held higher, more swish in your step. May as well make yourself easier to spot. The February chill put color in your cheeks already, so you look as flushed and inviting as you ever can.

It only takes a little while before you spot a handful of men congregated on and around a bench, laughing and talking. They notice you, and you can hear the conversation falter. “Hey, sailors,” you call out. Not a one’s in uniform, but they have that look about them; either it’s true or it’s flattering, so you’ll win either way. Unless you lose. Maybe getting the snot kicked out of you would work just as well. But you like to think you’ve got a good eye for these things by now.

“Hi there,” one answers. His pal elbows him in the ribs. “What’s your name?”

“Come a little closer, maybe you’ll find out.” You’re laying it on thick—too thick, maybe, but you’re starting to feel desperate. It’s late and you’re tired, and if you don’t get it soon, you won’t at all.

The man bites, though. His friends push at his shoulders as he starts making his way to you, and his smile for you is big and full of teeth. He’s broad and blond-haired, tall enough you have to tilt your chin to see his face once he’s close.

“Hello,” he says. His breath reeks of gin and cigarettes; it makes you want to cough. But this close, his face is handsome, and you’re already imagining what it’ll feel like when he gets his hands on you. “You lonely tonight?”

“Yes,” you say. “But you can do something about that, can’t you?”

He looks back at his friends. You want to grab him by the jaw and make him meet your eye. When he does, of his own volition, there’s a nervous light in his face that wasn’t there before. “How much?”

You drag in a breath. 

He thinks you’re pro. 

Shit, you really did put too much mustard on it—now what? You’ve got about two more seconds to decide before he turns tail, and he really is good-looking, and you want to sleep with him. How bad? Bad enough to pretend?

 _What the hell,_ you think. If you can get what you want and make a few dollars—well, all the better. 

You smirk and ask, “How much you got, doll?” 

The man looks you up and down, quick. “Couple bucks.”

“Well, okay,” you tell him, your voice a little reedy. You’re really doing this. “Come with me.”

He follows when you turn, and you wish your trousers fit a little better so the swing in your hips was more obvious, but he trots after you anyway. “You live close by?” he asks.

“No, I don’t.” It’s true, but you wouldn’t say anything different if you did. You don’t want to wait that long. You raise an eyebrow at him as you step one foot off the lamplit path. “That a problem, sailor?”

“Oh,” he says, his eyes wide. God, he’s green. “No.”

“Your friends will let us know if we’ve got something to worry about.”

“Yeah.”

“So we’re just fine. Come on then—don’t you wanna feel good?”

You lead him into the woods, surprised at yourself by how natural this all feels. You suppose it’s all just seduction, telling men what they want to hear—what they’re ready to believe, if you’d just say it out loud for them. In the dark, you find his hips and press him against a tree. His breath is loud. Should you kiss him? You can’t decide, so you start with his neck—figure you can either work your way up, or down.

“What do you want?” you ask, lips below his ear. His body is tight like he’s still anxious. You can tell he’s never slept with a prostitute, but maybe he’s never been with a man at all. “I want you to touch me,” you tell him. “Get your hands on me, sailor. That’s it.” 

His palms are wide and warm. He grips you hard behind the neck and at your ribs, and pulls you in like all he needed was the permission. You moan a little because it feels good, and he likes that you like it, so he grabs you a little harder. His fingers are pinching now, but you sigh out anyway. If he likes it a little rough, you can work with that.

“Tell me what you want,” you try again. If it were up to you, you’d want him to fuck you, but that’s probably neither advisable nor feasible. If he wants it—

“Suck me,” he says. “Get on your knees and suck me.” 

His thumb digs into the side of your neck like he’s thinking about pushing you down. Before he gets the chance, you say, “Coming right up,” then cringe at your own awful joke. He doesn’t seem to care, though, and his tight hold on you eases off when you slide down the front of him.

He unbuttons his pants while you fish the tin out of your wallet. He hadn’t offered, but you’re prepared, and you don’t really trust this guy not to come in your mouth—so you roll the rubber on for him. He shudders and sticks his hand in your hair, guiding you closer. You grab his wrist and squeeze, a warning, but that’s all you have to give. As soon as he’s past your lips, his whole body goes lax. Then it’s easy; then you can enjoy it. You close your eyes and hollow your cheeks, let yourself gag a few times just to flatter him, and soon enough his stomach is trembling where your palm is pressed flat against it.

You flick your gaze up to his face, but he isn’t looking at you. His face is pinched, eyes shut. From this angle, you notice he has a weak chin. He’s holding back noises, which is probably for the best, but maybe you can wring one out of him if you make him come hard enough. Your eyes water when you take him deep; it’s not for long—you can see it in his balls how close he’s getting. 

You pinch his thigh, just for fun, and his mouth flies open on a gasp. His orgasm hits him, and he whines his way through it, petting your scalp as he pulses into the condom. He makes no move to pull out of your mouth the whole time, even through the twitching aftershocks.

“Jesus,” he breathes, when he finally slips half-soft off your lips. You sit back on your heels and wipe your mouth with your sleeve. Your head fuzzes pleasantly while he tosses the rubber and tucks himself away. “Here.”

“Mm?” You blink up at him, where he’s holding something out to you, fluttering in your face.

Two worn dollar bills. Fuck. You’d forgotten.

“Thanks, sailor,” you tell him, breezy as you can, and slip the money into your jacket pocket. It’s more than you made off that comic you drew for some cheap magazine last week. You kiss his kneecap before you stand up.

“You around here often?” he asks.

You squint at him in the shadows. “Sometimes.”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll see you around again,” he says, almost a question—mostly hope.

“Maybe you will.”

In a few months you’ll know better than to brush off someone asking so blatantly when you can give him what he wants again. But tonight, you leave him behind and walk off back the way you came, only half-hard in your trousers. When you reach the street lamps again, your watch says it’s nearly two. Sighing, you resign yourself to walking home. If you make it fast enough, maybe you can do something with the rest of this energy in the shower stall. You can finger yourself better than that guy would have fucked you anyway.

  
  


Your jaw aches when you wake up in the morning. Nothing to be bothered about, really, but enough that you notice. With your eyes still closed you reach up and touch it, dig your fingertips into the spot where it hinges with the rest of your skull. The weak late winter sun is in your eyes; the curtain must have come loose again. Your roommates are clattering and making noise, grumbling about Saturday shifts. If you weren’t still tired, you’d haul yourself out of bed to talk about unions, but you’re still exhausted and you don’t know the two guys well enough either. 

Instead you just lie there and think too much about what you did the night before. No moral panic—or at least not any more than you felt that first time, when you let that big Italian take you home and spread you out. Taking money is a couple steps beyond just taking it in the ass, but what difference does it make, really? Mulling it over leaves you surprisingly unbothered by it.

If you did it again, maybe you could put money back like you’ve been trying. Move closer to Bucky. Get some damn privacy again, a place of your own. Hell, maybe that qualifies as a business investment.

You huff at your own joke, then roll over and go back to sleep.

When you start awake again, you fumble for your watch where it’s looped through the bedframe.

“Shit,” you mumble and start clambering out from under the sheets. You’ll be late to meet Bucky if you don’t get a move on. Five minutes later, you’ve got your shoes laced and head out the door.

Bucky is waiting for you at a table by the window when you dash up to the deli. You smack the glass with your palm right by his head, and he jumps so far off his seat he bumps the table. He glares at you, but not for long. His face splits into a wide smile to match yours.

Inside, you slide into the seat across from him. “Hey, pal, sorry I’m running late.”

“You were asleep, weren’t you?”

“That easy to tell?”

“Nah.” Bucky kicks his ankle under the table. “I just know you. Did you stay out? Where did you go?”

“No, no, we’re not talking about little old me first, Buck. What did _you_ do?”

He ducks his head, biting back a smile. Maybe it’s strange, but you don’t feel a bit jealous; you’re just happy that he’s in a good mood. No matter who put him in it, it’s your job to tend to it now.

Before Bucky can try to cover it, you pay for your pastrami sandwich with the money you made sucking cock. He frowns at you, but you shrug him off, mumbling something about a check you cashed this morning. 

One more secret won’t hurt him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tweet time](https://twitter.com/bride_ofquiet) and so is [alby](https://twitter.com/_artgroves_)! I'm also a mod for [Not Another Stucky Big Bang](https://notanotherstuckybb.dreamwidth.org/%22), and there's still a few days to sign up as an artist if you're into that kind of thing.


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